80.

Boston uncocks it again; loves the click. The potentiality. Cocks it.

Matte silhouette against the rail, she strains to see what'll wreck him. Horizontal green. Black. Anything. She craves it, innocently, the way one wants cars to crash at a race.

The Dark Horse lurches; Boston curses – unladylike, but this close to the edge of the world, she figures, who fucking cares.

She found the pistol under his pillow. This is the closest thing to in love she'll ever be.